


Shine bright like a diamond

by iiscos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, but humor definitely, isco is the cute sidekick, karim is the captain real madrid deserves but not the one it needs, not entirely crack, subtle karisco if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karim gets a head injury and wakes up in an alternate universe, where he is the captain of Real Madrid—the worst team in La Liga.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue I: Tomorrow way too far away

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based off this [prompt](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/10208.html?thread=5370592#t5370592) at ffk2.
> 
> Idk either, man! I just got this idea, and it wouldn't leave my head. And I have all these left over Benzema feels after working on my fic for futbal mini-bang. So yep, enjoy the ridiculous Benza story.

Cristiano Ronaldo can jump a height of six feet. 

Karim has never been keen on keeping records of the Portuguese’s physical prowess, but he supposes this tidbit is a given, considering Karim is six feet tall, and Cristiano had leapt high enough to knee him in the head. 

There really isn’t any point in playing it down; it hurt a lot. The Frenchman saw black and white spots behind his eyelids, as the perfectly clipped pitch of the Bernabéu came crashing towards him. Cris then landing on his back didn’t help either.

Karim supposes it’s his own fault for getting in Cristiano’s way, knowing the Portuguese striker would be attacking the far post with reckless, single-minded abandon. But Karim wanted to score too, and he had every right to go for Marcelo’s cross, even if no one seems to remember he’s the center striker at times. Oh, the woes of playing in the city of kings.

Cris feels pretty lousy for the collision, and coddles Karim in his clingy, awkward way, until the Frenchman musters the strength to rise to his feet. The Portuguese continues to hug him apologetically as they return up field for the goal kick. 

Karim can still see tiny, dancing circles every time he blinks, but he doesn’t mention it to anyone throughout the remainder of the match.

~~

Real Madrid beat Osasuna 2-0 in the Copa del Rey. Karim scored the opener in the first half, from a free kick curled in by Luka. Jesé added to their tally in the second, with a perfectly weighted assist from Cris. Not exactly a spectacular match, but comfortable enough to send them through, which is all that matters for now.

Morata, Dani, and the other young Spaniards are making plenty of noise in the dressing room—laughing, and cheering, and making plans to go out in celebration of Jesé’s goal. Everyone has forgotten Karim’s contribution by this point, but the Frenchman doesn't mind. 

He’s a striker, he scores goals. It’s expected of him to score, so it’s no surprise that he did. His stats are impressive for any top-class forward, but it’s hard to shine in a sea of stars. And Karim has accepted that a long time ago, ever since arriving to Madrid at the tender age of 21 and already shadowed by the likes of Cristiano Ronaldo and Kaká—who were new to Madrid just like him, but have accomplished so much more in their time.

The Spanish people are overwhelming and passionate, just like their breathless, hot summers. They laugh and cry, sing and shout, love and hate with such vibrancy and freedom, that Karim feels like an iceman in comparison—rigid, awkward, lacking in life. He gets his fair share of criticism from the media and the fans, when they mistake his quietness for detachment, his caution to lack of concern. But Karim is never one to feign anything beyond what he is, lays out in the open all of his strengths and weaknesses. His teammates like him well enough, but he has never been popular or standout.

Sergio elevates the volume to his flamenco music and promptly begins to sing badly. Karim presses his head against his locker, feeling like shit. Cristiano probably gave him a concussion, so a trip to physio seems imminent.

“Hey man, you okay?” Karim feels a nudge at his knee, and opens his eyes to find Isco, freshly showered and clad only in a towel—his large brown eyes shining and filled with concern. Karim wonders why he isn’t frolicking with the rest of the young, new signings.

“Headache,” he mumbles offhandedly, maneuvering to slip his arms through the T-shirt around his neck. He had stopped dressing halfway through, apparently.

“From the collision today?” Isco asks, sitting down beside him, even though his locker is nowhere near. Karim wishes he hadn’t—not that he dislikes Isco—but right now, any sort of sound is grating to his fragile eggshell skull.

“Yeah,” he says, rising to his feet to pull on his jeans. “Gonna go see physio after.”

“I think I’ll come with you.” Isco gets up as well. “I think I picked up an ankle knock.”

Karim tries to remember if Isco even played at all today, before finding it too exhausting. His belt falls on the floor, so he bends down to retrieve it and regrets his decision almost immediately when his stomach begins to churn, the bitter taste of bile rising to his tongue. His knees buckle as the room around him spins, and Karim grabs onto the closest thing reachable—which happens to be Isco’s towel—in a desperate attempt to regain his balance.

“Ah, Karim, what the hell!” Isco shrieks, and it’s the last thing the Frenchman hears before everything fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughh short beginning, but comments are loved! Thanks for reading :')


	2. Prologue II: And we can't get back yesterday

Karim wakes up in the middle of the night, in a pool of cold, sticky sweat. It’s too hot under the covers, but his entire body is quivering with aches and chills. He needs water, feeling as if he had swallowed a cactus wrapped in sandpaper before going to sleep. And he’s not even in his own bed—which he soon realizes after tumbling off the edge of a mattress that is way too narrow for a grown man.

Karim only has briefs on, so everything from the comforter to the sheets clung stubbornly to his clammy skin. He is left struggling on the floor for a long exasperating minute, before he hears shuffling from a distance not too far away.

The Frenchman doesn’t think too much of it then, simply assumes the team had booked a cheap hotel for an away match. He half-expected to see Raphaël in the opposite bed, or maybe even Samir if he were with the national team. But it’s Isco who flips on the lamp, yawning and rubbing at the scruff beneath his chin. 

Karim flops over and grimaces at the young Spaniard. “Why are you naked?”

Isco rolls his sleepy eyes before rising to aid the fallen Frenchman. He makes no gesture to conceal his nudity.

“You roomed with Higuaín for the past three years, for Christ’s sake,” he says as if it were a viable explanation. He takes Karim by the elbow and yanks until the Frenchman is sitting on the bed.

“Where are we?” Karim squeezes his eyes shut. His head pounds painfully to the rhythm of a ticking clock.

“Our room,” Isco answers patiently with his hands at his hips, looking at the Frenchman in solemn disapproval. “They should’ve taken you to the hospital. I can’t believe they didn’t.”

Karim responds with a dry, hacking cough.

“Do you need water?” the Spaniard asks, “I’ll get some for you.”

Isco leaves the room without waiting for an answer. Karim sinks back into his bed, staring blearily at the ceiling. He falls asleep before the Spaniard returns.

~~

When Karim wakes up the second time, he finds himself alone, but no longer surrounded by darkness. It’s late in the afternoon, judging by the reddish hue of the sunlight peering through the cracks in the blinds. Karim is definitely _not_ in a hotel—that much is certain—considering his Rihanna poster is still by his bedside, although much closer than he had originally placed.

Lifting his head required too much effort; so instead, he glances towards his right to study the opposite wall—Isco’s side. 

The arrangement of the room resembles a college dormitory, and Isco’s living area is nothing short of what Karim would expect from a 21-year-old male. The Spaniard's bed is unmade, his sheets rolled up together and dangling off the edge as if he had left in a hurry. A few socks lay scattered on the floor, while clothing and football gear pile at his desk. On his dresser are his toiletries—deodorant, shampoo, aftershave, toothpaste. _Nivea For Men_ , Karim reads the giant, block letters . There are picture frames and books on his shelves—next to some sparkly, stuffed animals—which is probably the only strange article of possession Karim can find.

The door opens then, just wide enough for the small Spaniard to slip inside. He’s clothed this time, in a black T-shirt and blue jeans with a hole at the knee. Isco leans against the door to close it behind him, sighing and looking dejectedly at the floor. 

Karim clears his throat and pushes himself to a sitting position. The Spaniard jumps slightly, widening his eyes.

“Oh, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Better.” The Frenchman winces and rubs at his neck. His head is still buzzing, but he no longer experienced the same debilitating sort of pain.

“That’s good.” Isco smiles shyly, flattening his palms against the surface of the door. “Better stay put for now. Cristiano’s in the kitchen, depressed and binge drinking.”

“Why?” Karim furrows his brows, and what he meant to say was: _Why is he here? And why is any of us here?_

But Isco misunderstands him, frowning in sympathy. “Because he scored today. Again.”

“So?” Karim arches a brow, to which the Spaniard tilts his head, mirroring his teammate's confusion. 

“Cristiano hates scoring goals.”

“Since when?”

“Since ever. They’re own goals.”

“What?”

“Cris averages a goal a game,” Isco blinks to the Frenchman as if the latter were inane, “He’s the worst defender in history.”

Karim pushes away his covers and stands up, although he's at a loss to what he should do next. He glares accusingly to Isco, appalled that the Spaniard would attempt a prank during a time like this, when Karim is still recovering from a head injury. “ _Fuck off_.”

“Excuse me?” Isco gapes, momentarily caught out by the sudden rudeness.

“You’re fucking with me.” Karim shakes his head. “Cristiano is one of the best strikers in the world. He’s won the Ballon D’Or. Twice.”

For a moment, Isco simply looks at him stunned, before gradually breaking into a fit of giggles. “Oh my god! Cris, a striker? That’s just cruel, Karim!”

The Frenchman stands in the middle of their shared room, rubbing uselessly at his bare thighs. Isco laughs until he might topple over.

“And I suppose we’re _not_ the worst team in La Liga either,” the Spaniard grins, eyes sparkling.

Karim takes a long minute to absorb this information, before shouting at the top of his lungs, “We’re the worst team in La Liga?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel Isco would be one to have stuffed animals. 
> 
> Done with prologues, and future chapters will be longer! Thanks for reading and please leave a review :-)


	3. Your mind is in disturbia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, this is probably the most ridiculous thing I've ever written. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Karim pushes past Isco despite the Spaniard's protest and finds a common living quarter beyond their shared bedroom. He does a quick glance over of the furniture and contents. Sergio is sitting on a gray corduroy couch, his feet propped against a futon. He has a bowl of Cheetos by his side, and he looks at Karim wide-eyed, orange powder all over his mouth. At the kitchen table sits some hairy _hobo_ —his dark curling fringe and long beard obscuring most of his face. He groans as he drinks scotch straight from the bottle. Next to the hobo, along the walls, is a distractingly large poster of scantily dressed K-pop stars. Nothing about this makes any sense, but Karim supposes nightmares rarely do.

"Hey, guys." Isco laughs nervously behind Karim, standing on tiptoes to look beyond the Frenchman's shoulders. "Look who's awake?"

"Hey, how you feeling, man?" Sergio smiles and wipes his mouth with orange dusted fingers, exacerbating the mess on his face.

The Spaniard is wearing a green polo and khakis. His hair is ungelled, so it falls over his forehead like normal hair. Something about him is off, though—like his mere presence isn't enough to give Karim a headache anymore. The Frenchman notices the smooth, muscular length of Sergio's arm along the back of the couch. A small chocking noise escapes his throat.

"What happened to your tattoos?" he asks.

"Tattoos?" Sergio furrows his brows. "Why would I have tattoos?"

"Y—You have tattoos!" Karim feels his chest heave, his breath coming and going in short, uneven bursts. "You have the Virgin Mary on your arm, and the initials of your siblings around your fingers. You have a Chinese symbol behind your ear—which everyone makes fun of, saying it means soy sauce—but it actually means wolf—Oh god. OH MY GOD!"

Baffled by the outburst, Sergio looks at Isco for an explanation. The younger Spaniard sucks in his breath, twirling an index finger against his temple. Sergio presses his lips together and returns his attention to the horrified Frenchman.

"Maybe you should take a seat," he offers, clearing a clutter of magazines from the couch.

"What the fuck is going on!" Karim shouts, shrugging away Isco's hand on his elbow. "What is this place?"

"We're in our apartment," Sergio says slowly, as one would with the mentally unstable. "We all share an apartment—you, me, Isco, and Cristiano. Isco moved in after Pipita left. Do you remember Pipita?"

Karim lets Isco nudge him forward this time, until his knees bump against the edge of the sofa. He sits obediently when the younger Spaniard pushes down on his shoulders.

"But _why_?" The Frenchman pinches his brows together.

"Pipita left to start a bakery," Sergio says, before leaning in and dropping his voice to a bare whisper. "But we all know it's actually a male strip club."

" _Okay_ …" Karim looks at Isco, who nods in affirmation. "But why are we all— _here_?"

"Why do we live together?" Sergio answers patiently. "For financial reasons. And for conveniences' sake."

"We're footballers, though."

"Well, it's not like we have Bendtner's salary," Isco snorts.

Karim grunts in frustration, burying his face in his hands. This has to be a bad dream; there's no other explanation. He bites the inside of his cheek, but to no avail.

"That knock to the head really did a number on you, didn't it?" Sergio slings an arm over him. "Do you remember anything?"

"Fuck, Cristiano," the Frenchman mumbles and hears a drunken slur from the table behind him.

"How many times do I need to apologize, Karim? Jesus H. Christ!"

The Frenchman jolts in his seat, whipping his head to the voice's owner—the hairy hobo whom he had initially considered inquiring about, but has long forgotten since. Karim and the hobo lock eyes, and the Frenchman can finally see it now—beneath the unwaxed eyebrows, the shaggy hair, the depression beard—

"Cristiano?"

~~

"Come on Karim, we have to go!" Isco shouts, pulling at the Frenchman's ankle.

"No, fuck off!" Karim refuses to budge, adamant in waiting out this whole nightmare in the comforts of—maybe not _his_ bed, but at least _a_ bed.

"We're gonna be late, and it's all your fault!" The young Spaniard whines, kicking at Karim's mattress, which only served to throw himself off balance.

"I'm obviously losing my mind." The Frenchman's voice is muffled by the pillow atop his head. "Just go without me."

"I can't!" Isco takes his own pillow and starts smacking Karim on the butt. "Coach says you have to come back as soon as you're awake."

With the combined coercion of Isco, Sergio, and hobo Ronaldo—along with some undignified screaming, struggling, and breaking of things—the Frenchman eventually wills himself through his morning preparations.

It's lightly snowing by the time they step outside—meaning it's still winter, so at least Karim's seasonal rhythm isn't entirely fucked up. He wears his wool hat and his black, puffy jacket as he waits on the side of the street with his teammates.

"What are we doing?" he asks when no one speaks or moves for five minutes.

"Waiting for our ride," Isco answers him. He has his scarf wrapped three times around his face so only his eyes are showing.

Karim watches Isco blink away snowflakes that catch onto his lashes. He finds it kind of pretty, but his thoughts are completely scrambled when a rusty, green sedan pulls up at the curb right in front of them, spewing black guck and smog.

"Buenos días, señoritas." Xabi rolls down the window on the passenger side, flashing an uncharacteristically self-satisfied grin. Past the bearded Spaniard is Marcelo at the wheel. Xabi dips his head and looks to Karim over his douchey sunglasses. "Good to see you up and about, Frenchie. Heard you lost your marbles last night."

Karim isn't the only one regarding Xabi with utmost caution.

"Where's Pepe?" Sergio says thinly, and Xabi gasps with a feigned look of hurt.

"And to think you'd treat your fellow countryman and teammate with so little appreciation. Arbeloa got his license suspended after feeling up a patrol cop, so we had to do a bit of shuffling. No one wanted me driving. Can you believe that?" Xabi looks pointedly at the four men on the curb, before scowling. "Well, what are you waiting for, an invitation? Get in the car, motherfuckers!"

"Karim's still not feeling well because of the head injury," Isco says as he pulls open the rear door, "So—I don't know—be nice."

"Yeah, yeah." Xabi rolls his eyes behind his shades, already losing interest in the conversation.

With Isco's encouraging nudge, Karim is the first to enter the battered, old car. The strong, nauseating stench of Chinese food and weed made his stomach twist and eyes water. He decides it's best to breathe through his mouth.

The small Spaniard follows closely behind, and Karim slides over to allow the others room. And Isco—rather than taking the seat next to the Frenchman—plops himself onto Karim's lap.

"What the hell are you doing?" Karim feels he has the right to object, but the stunned look on the Spaniard's face suggest otherwise.

"I—Uh—" Isco stammers, redness rising to his cheeks. "We always do this because—otherwise, we won't all fit in the car. You never had a problem with it before. Not with Pipita or me."

Xabi in the front seat unleashes a howling laugh. "We all know big Benz is an ass-man! You really think you can compete with Higuaín's fat culo, pipsqueak?"

Karim can't see Isco's face from his angle, but he feels the small Spaniard's entire body tense. A twinge of guilt festers at the pit of his stomach.

"God, Xabi, you're such a dick," Sergio next to the Frenchman reprimands. "Don't listen to him, Isco. You can sit on me if you want."

Isco is just about to move when Marcelo joins the conversation for the first time. "I don't think that's a good idea. I researched all of Karim's symptoms last night, and this first-hand observation confirms my initial hypothesis. Karim has a rather bizarre case of post-traumatic amnesia—retrograde, most likely, considering he has difficulties recalling memories before the onset. But the trauma also seems to have triggered a latent confabulation disorder, resulting in the production of false and distorted memories, such as the impression of Cristiano being a world-class striker or Sergio having tattoos."

"Is Karim going to be okay?" Isco asks.

"Traumatic amnesia is often transient, depending on the severity of injury. I would classify this incident as mild, but the addition of confabulation complicates things. It'll take time before Karim can regain at least some of his memories. So for now, I suggest we treat him the same as we've always done, and notify him of false memories as much as possible. In other words, Isco, don't move from Karim's lap."

"Okay," the small Spaniard says dejectedly, readjusting his weight to the front half of Karim's thighs. He balances himself with the head support on Marcelo's seat, and doesn't lean back into the Frenchman or make any unnecessary contact.

"You ought to be a fucking doctor or something," Xabi laughs, slapping the driver on the bicep. "Why are you wasting your life kicking a ball around with ten other idiots?"

"Sometime I ask myself the same question," Marcelo sighs.

Isco is far from heavy, but his body mass isn't insubstantial either. Karim would compare it to the dead weight of an overgrown infant. And for some reason—throughout the remainder of the ride to practice—the Frenchman can't concentrate on anything, except for the warm, tentative press of Isco's ass on his slowly numbing thighs.

~~

Karim watches practice unfold before him, and feels as if he had mixed hash with moldy marijuana. Not that he has ever done anything remotely as creative—mind you—but this is how Karim would imagine the experience to be like.

Isco jogs past him, bundled in his winter gear. Karim decides to join the young Spaniard, since he appears the most "normal" out of everyone present.

"H—Hey," the Frenchman greets awkwardly, and Isco turns and blinks up at him, his large brown eyes shining and expressive. "Uh, sorry about before, in the car."

"No, it's fine." The Spaniard looks away, shrugging. "It wasn't your fault. Xabi's—well—"

"Xabi, you're such a dick!" They both turn to hobo Ronaldo across the pitch, sitting on the turf while Sergio picks the ball out of the net. Xabi a few feet away cackles evilly. "Stop kicking the ball to me when I'm practicing bicycle clearances!"

"Yeah," Isco says, returning to their previous conversation, "Xabi's kind of a dick."

Karim slides his palm from his forehead to his chin, shaking his head at the sky. "I think I'm going insane. No, I'm definitely going insane, if not already."

"That bad, eh?" The Spaniard pats his shoulder. "Do you remember anything at all?"

"No, I remember everything, but—just differently. I remember everything and everyone _differently_."

"What do you mean differently?"

He thinks about it for a moment, before deciding, "I don't want to talk about it." 

Karim sighs and commences with their jog, motioning for Isco to follow. He doubts anyone would understand—judging from his teammates' initial reactions—and he would rather keep to himself than spend the rest of his life wrapped up in a room with the walls made of cushions.

"Okay," Isco says easily, matching the Frenchman's pace. "Well, do you have any questions? I can help you with that, if you're unsure."

"I have a lot of questions."

"Go ahead and ask. I don't mind."

Karim inhales deeply, taking a moment to prioritize his inquiries. They pass Mou at that moment, swearing in Portuguese and beating Cristiano over the head with a water bottle.

"Why is Mourinho still our coach? Is he a—bad coach?"

"Mou?" Isco scrunches his nose in thought. "No, he's very good, actually. But he lost a bet to Pep Guardiola, so it was either coach the worst team in La Liga for a year, or marry the guy. Mou chose us in the end, but I think he's regretting his decision."

"Okay," Karim says slowly, processing this rather needless but revealing piece of information. "And why is Ramos in goal?"

"Because he's the goalkeeper."

"What about Iker?"

"Who?"

"Casillas," Karim looks at the Spaniard, dumbfounded. "Our captain?"

"Uh." Isco bites the corner of his lips. "I don't know who you're talking about, but you're our captain."

" _Me_?" Karim widens his eyes, gaping unattractively. " _Why_?"

"No one wanted the job, I guess." The Spaniard shrugs. "And I think you agreed by accident when you dozed off during a team brunch. You don't really do much though, as captain."

Karim pauses briefly, before deciding it would take too much energy to cast his doubts. "Alright, why not," he sighs, "What about everyone else, then?"

"Everyone else?"

"Yeah." The Frenchman looks around, noting their teammates present—Gareth, Sami, Álvaro, some morbidly obese guy he doesn't recognize, but he's wearing the same training gear, so Karim decides to count him too. "Where's Rapha, Morata, or any of your little Spanish friends?"

"Um." Isco looks at him worriedly. "I have no idea who they are either, but this _is_ everyone. On the team."

"There are only twelve of us."

"Yeah. We used to be more, but some left after last season—You know, Pipita, Mesut, Raul, Ricky."

"So you're saying, for every match, we only have _one_ substitute?"

"Well, for the last match, we didn't have any, because you were out injured."

" _How_ —" Karim bemoans, his expression pained. "How is this team even— _existing_?"

"We still get sponsored," Isco says, his voice earnest. "A lot of people like to bet on us because—I guess we're funny to watch. We have to stay in La Liga, though. It's all over if we lose the relegation battle, and we're pretty close to losing this season."

Karim sighs for the umpteenth time that day, slowly accepting the inevitable deterioration of his mind. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Yeah, stay away from Luka. You do not want to mess with Luka Modrić."

Karim glances towards the Croatian midfielder, who has tattoo sleeves on both arms and the image of a skull on his face. He is currently terrorizing Gareth Bale, who's curled up on the ground and crying softly.

"What's wrong with Bale?"

"Oh," Isco says with a touch of sympathy. "No one likes him because players were sold to pay for his transfer. He cost Real Madrid one whole million euros."

"You're kidding me," Karim says dryly. Isco shakes his head.

"You don't like Gareth either since Pipita left, and you and him were sort of a thing."

" _What_?" Karim halts in his stride, mortified. "I slept with _Higuaín_?"

Isco also stops, looking at the Frenchman with uncertainty. "Didn't you?"

Karim takes a moment to organize his thoughts, before asking, "Did I?"

The Spaniard gives him a small half-smile, half-grimace. "Yeah, you did."

Karim counts to twenty to make sure he won't hyperventilate or faint. Isco waits patiently for him the entire time.

"I mean, a lot of people were a thing," the Spaniard continues, frowning thinly, "Sergio and Mesut, Álvaro and Raul. But you guys were all just messing around. Cristiano has it the worst, though. He was actually in love with Ricky and—Cris was bad before, but, now, he's a complete mess."

A brief moment of solemnity passes before Karim asks suddenly, more out of curiosity than anything. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You're a new signing just like Gareth, right? But you seem to get along fine."

"That's because I was a free transfer. No one else wanted me."

"No way," the Frenchman says, the words escaping before he can turn on any sort of filter. "You have so much potential. You're the future of Spain. A lot of clubs wanted you."

Isco looks at him thoughtfully, before asking, "Is this what you meant when you said you remember everyone differently?"

Karim slowly nods.

The Spaniard lets out a soft little laugh, averting his eyes. "Well, sorry to disappoint you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the cracky goodness. Please leave a review.


	4. Pour it up, pour it up, that's how we ball out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thesis is due, so I decided to work on this instead. Lol enjoy.

Mustering greater confidence with each day, Karim gets acquainted with his teammates and notices trends in their behaviors and personalities, and the ways they contrast the reality he is accustomed to. Most of his teammates are complete opposites—Xabi is an asshole, Cristiano is tragically down on his luck, and Marcelo and Pepe are the most extraordinarily intelligent people Karim has ever met. Others are exaggerations, like Álvaro, whose flirtatious behavior has long exceeded the threshold to sexual harassment. And for the rest, Karim has absolutely no fucking clue. It took him a long time to realize Khedira only speaks in Pig Latin, while Gareth Bale cries in response to any human interaction.

Isco is different too—shyer, meeker, and less sure of himself—but despite even that, the young Spaniard is the only source of relative normalcy Karim can find, so he hangs onto the young man like grim death.

"What was I like?" The Frenchman asks one morning, while Isco is shaving in the bathroom.

"What do you mean?" The Spaniard remains fixed to the mirror, swiping the blade carefully down his left cheek.

"How would you describe me before the head injury?"

"I don't know." Isco shrugs. "You've always been just you."

"Give me some specifics," Karim insists, "What do I do? Any quirks?"

Isco takes a moment to splash water on his face and doesn't respond until he's drying himself with a towel. "You wear fluorescent underwear and take really unflattering photos of yourself."

 _Huh_ , Karim thinks. So even when the world has turned ridiculously on its head, the Frenchman still manages to remain stubbornly the same. "Is there anything about me that's different—other than the amnesia, the false memories?"

"Hmm," Isco mumbles thoughtfully, inspecting his now smooth face. "Your accent got a bit worse."

~~

They lose 4-0 away to Celta Vigo—a disaster from beginning to end. Karim keeps his position as center striker, but everyone else is completely scrambled, and the Frenchman has no clue what to expect. Cristiano's own goal gives the home team the lead after only seven minutes, and Luka seems adamant on kicking the ball into outer space every chance he gets. During the break, Álvaro is sent off for groping both the linesman and the ref, so they have to play the entire second half a man down. No one passes to Bale even though he's unmarked, so the Welshman spends most of his time by the periphery, reading Shel Silverstein's _The Giving Tree_ and bemoaning the cruelties of mankind. Celta's center striker nets a hat trick before the final whistle is blown.

After the match, Karim finds Isco by the benches alone.

"Why didn't you play?" The Frenchman asks.

"I don't know." Isco shrugs. "El Mister never told me to warm up, or anything."

"Why didn't he? We could've used the help."

Isco looks dolefully at the toe of his boot. "I doubt I would've been much help."

"I doubt you could've done worse than Ángel." Karim normally wouldn't say that about the talented, pacy winger, but the Argentinian playing alongside him today is morbidly obese—to the point where Karim is actually worried for his physical health. He didn't even recognize Ángel until he saw the 22 on his kit when they lined up for photos, and after that, he couldn't believe his eyes. "Well, either way," the Frenchman adds, "You'll have to start next match since Arbeloa has to serve his ban."

"Yeah," Isco says quietly as he follows Karim into the locker room. "That's something to look forward to, isn't it?"

~~

Rapha never left Lens. Karim looks up the French center back on the Internet and is somewhat relieved to know that his young friend isn't merely a product of his insanity. He searches for Morata, Illarra, and all the other players missing from the team and finds a number them in various clubs in Spain, Italy, and England. He curiously fails to locate Iker Casillas anywhere.

Most of these previous friends exist—so Karim isn't as fucked up as everyone thinks—but it still begs the question of how the Frenchman would know the players in the first place, if he is indeed some nobody striker at a penniless club on the brink of relegation.

Maybe this is an alternate universe—Karim thinks—as he recalls a Nicholas Cage movie he had seen on the plane once, where Cage played some big shot Wall Street executive who had woken up one day as a modest, suburban father of two—a life he would've had if he weren't some ambitious, money-obsessed douchebag. Karim doesn't understand why something similar would happen to him. Of all the egos in the football world, the Frenchman feels he is actually quite moderate. He wonders if the universe is trying to tell him something important. He also doesn't remember how the movie ended.

Karim thought about recreating the head injury in hopes of knocking himself back to his own reality, but the prospect of ending up somewhere even worse thoroughly discouraged him. In the grand scheme of all possibilities, being a striker at a humble club isn't the worst fate, especially compared to those suffering from war, famine, natural disasters, zombie apocalypses, and the like. And Karim, with his poor survival skills and lack of urgency, certainly wouldn't fare well in harsher conditions.

Maybe it's because of Isco's soft snoring merely a few feet away, but Karim spends a lot of time thinking about the young Spaniard when he is lying in bed awake. What does he know about Isco anyway, even before the nightmare head injury?

Isco is only 21 and has had a fantastic run with Spain in the Euro U-21s. He's mature for his age, a bit quieter than the other young Spaniards, and gets a special helping of expectations from the press and fans, after Özil's departure left the playmaker role gapingly vacant. Isco has never been shy about asking senior players for advice—especially Xabi or Cristiano, about the passes he should make and runs he should look out for. Sometimes he would approach Karim, but the Frenchman can never figure out anything useful or intelligent to say—uncommitted hums and grunts of agreement usually did the job. He sat with Karim a few times on bus rides too, even though neither of them spoke much.

~~

Isco starts in the match against Levante at home, and Karim makes an extra effort to ensure—maybe not a _win_ , given their awful form and lack of motivation, but at least, not a terribly humiliating loss. Karim tracks back with the midfield. He helps defend corners. He even fouls Levante's 6'7" defender—who vaguely resembles The Undertaker—after the ruffian had knocked Isco off the ball. The Frenchman gets his first yellow card in three years, along with a silent promise of suffering and death from Levante's most fearsome.

The away team opens score early, after a miscommunication between Pepe and Marcelo left Sergio completely vulnerable to a one-on-one. But around the half hour mark, Karim manages to break free with the ball for a counter attack. He skips over a defender, but the move sends him wide. Isco makes a decent run to the far post, and Karim delivers a perfectly weighted cross between the goalkeeper and the last defender.

The Spaniard looks surprised that the ball even reached his feet. He scuffs his shot last minute, and the ball rolls harmlessly past the side netting.

Isco watches on—devastated and mortified. Mourinho scowls vehemently by the sideline, while the fans whistle and jeer. Karim gives Isco a thumbs-up anyway, but he doubts the Spaniard even sees him.

Real doesn't get another clear-cut chance until 20 minutes into the second half, when Karim receives the ball from a lucky rebound. He is immediately surrounded by opposing players, with very few options to get himself out of the mess. Isco had stopped making runs after his mistake in the first half.

Karim watches as The Undertaker lunges at him in almost slow motion.

"Bale!" The Frenchman shouts as he kicks the ball up field.

At the halfway line, Gareth Bale looks up from his paperback copy of _Le Petit Prince_. He brings the ball down with his chest, controlling it with ease.

Karim looses his defender and speeds past the Welshman towards the opponent half. He points to where he wants the return pass, and Bale's delivery does not disappoint. After a superb touch, Karim nets the equalizer with a clinical finish. Everyone in the stadium looks at him stunned. Mourinho even cracks a rare—albeit terrifying—smile.

"Olyhay itshay, Arimkay, atthay asway amazingway!" Khedira is the first to reach him, jumping onto his back in celebration.

"Thanks, I think," Karim says as Marcelo and Pepe make their way upfield as well, hugging and patting his carefully shaven head.

Isco smiles shyly when his turn comes, burying his face in the Frenchman's neck. Karim kisses him on the forehead.

And after less pleasant hugs from Luka and Xabi, they all make their way back for kick-off.

Karim spots Gareth by the halfway line, snuffling miserably. The Frenchman doesn't hesitate to sling an arm over his teammate's shoulder, thanking the Welshman for the perfect assist. Gareth spends the next five minutes soaking Karim's shirt with mucus and tears.

Real Madrid valiantly defend the draw during the waning minutes of the match, and it honestly looks like they're going to leave with their first point in months. The last move of the match is a Levante corner. The taker curls the ball to the far post, and Karim feels his heart drop as Cristiano rises above everyone else. The ball hits the underside of the crossbar and drops beyond the goal line.

The fans throw rotten vegetables at them afterwards. Karim glances at the benches to find Mourinho already gone.

The next day, the club makes an official announcement that José Mourinho has resigned and moved on to the greener pastures of Stamford Bridge. He is happily engaged to Pep Guardiola, with the wedding planned for early spring. None of the Real Madrid players are invited.

~~

Karim wakes up to the soft, dejected, squeaky sounds of Isco throwing his stuffed animals into his suitcase. The Frenchman yawns, scratching lazily at his chest. "What's going on?"

"I'm moving back to Málaga," Isco says sadly.

"What?" Karim pushes off his covers, propping himself up. "Why?"

"We don't have a manager anymore. It's over." The Spaniard packs up his football gear as well, and plops himself onto the suitcase until it latches close. "You should arrange your flight back to France. They're taking away the apartment soon."

"No." Karim mutters despite himself.

"What?" Isco pinches his brows together.

"No," the Frenchman repeats with more resolve this time. "It's not over."

"It's halfway through the season," Isco protests, "We're at the bottom of the table without a manager. We're going to be relegated for sure."

Karim swings his legs over to the side of the bed, feeling unusually motivated as a sudden surge of energy courses through his veins, making it hard for him to stand still and do nothing. Maybe it's because of his captaincy—or his goal last match that made everyone _almost_ appreciative of him—but Karim feels he has invested too much of his sanity in this ridiculously, awful team, to simply let it crumble like sand against beating waves. Isco looking at him like a kicked puppy doesn't help either.

"Hand me my phone," Karim says, and the Spaniard promptly does so. Karim calls his agent, who redirects him to the hiring staff, who connects him to the club president, who then transfers him to their main sponsor.

"Hello?" came the humorless acknowledgement from the spokesperson of Bwin.

"Hi, this is Karim Benzema, the captain of Real Madrid."

"You mean you _were_ the captain of Real Madrid," the guy snorts. Isco, who is pressing his ear close to the other side of the phone, wrinkles his nose at the insult.

"I'm calling because I want to extend our partnership," Karim says, "At least, to the end of the season."

"Yeah, no can do," the spokesperson dismisses. "No one's going to bet on you guys anymore, now that you don't even have a manager. You're a poor investment, even poorer than before, can you imagine?"

"We don't need a manager," Karim insists, but the guy remains adamantly disinterested.

"Listen, Benzema. No one's gonna put money on your team because—who cares how many own goals Ronaldo will keep on scoring? It was fun, but the joke's getting real old, real fast. Might as well quit while you're still ahead. I heard your buddy Gonzalo Higuaín has opened some male strip club. Now, that's what I call vision."

"What if I make Ronaldo striker?" Karim says, and a long moment passes before the other guy even breathes.

"Say that again?"

"What if I make Ronaldo striker?" The Frenchman repeats. "You think that can lure back your customers?"

The guy laughs until he's choking on his own saliva. He then puts Karim on hold for ten minutes before agreeing to the deal. Bwin will sponsor Real Madrid until the end of the season, just enough to keep the pathetic club from going bankrupt. And in return, Ronaldo has to play in the attacking third, because who wouldn't want to laugh, and point, and ridicule at that. And if Real Madrid manages to escape relegation, they'll even get an added bonus next season. Karim and the Bwin guy hang up after making an appointment to sign new contracts.

"How did you manage to do that?" Isco looks at the Frenchman in both amazement and horror. "How are you going to convince the others—and _Cristiano_?"

"Dunno." Karim shrugs. "But I could use the help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are very much appreciated. Thanks for reading! xx


	5. It's alright we can roll in the clouds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it has been quite the hiatus. But because the past weeks have been especially difficult for my fellow Madridistas, I've decided to revisit this ridiculous fic and maybe get a chuckle or two again. Aiming to bring it to completion this time around. Thank you for all the support and patience :-)

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Karim says as his teammates file through the door of their small, dingy apartment. Sergio and Cristiano had rearranged the chairs and couches so that everyone would have a seat, while Isco busied himself in the kitchen, cutting up tiny cubes of cheese and impaling them with toothpicks. 

The Frenchman reorganizes the scribbled notes in his hands, counting the footballers present at their impromptu gathering—Xabi, Álvaro, Marcelo, Modrić. A few are still missing, but Karim hardly expects this train wreck of a team to be punctual, among all the other positive qualities they lack.

“Alright, let’s cover some basic things first.” The Frenchman clears his throat and begins. “Bwin has agreed to sponsor us until the end of the season, meaning that the apartments and our paychecks are covered for the next five months. The offer can be extended if we manage to stay in La Liga. We still don’t have a coach, but we will have to work without one for now.”

“So what’s the catch?” Marcelo, as intuitive as ever, interjects.

“The catch—” Karim inhales deeply. “—is that Ronaldo has to play in the attacking third.”

The reaction from the audience is mixed to say the least, but the most notable is Xabi’s obnoxious cackle, followed by Cristiano’s miserable groan.

“How can you do this to me, Karim?” The Portuguese buries his face in his hands, sounding utterly betrayed. Sergio, beside Cristiano, slings a sympathetic arm over his dejected colleague. “I thought you were my friend.”

“But just—think about it.” Karim has to swallow a bit of guilt before he can continue with his proposal. “You’re averaging a goal a game while doing absolutely everything you can _not_ to score. Just imagine how many goals you’d score when you’re actually trying.”

“Brilliant. Fucking brilliant.” Xabi chortles despite the glares shot at him. “I can’t think of anything more brilliant since those horrendous underwear ads.”

“What underwear ads?” Karim asks, just as Isco emerges from the kitchen in a frilly apron, delicately balancing a plate of assorted cheeses.

“You did some commercials for Fruit of The Loom France before moving to Madrid,” the Spaniard explains with a touch of sympathy, all the while glaring reproachfully at their cackling teammate. “There’s a billboard of you in Lyon, with only grapes covering your genitals. It’s okay. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of.”

Isco offers a gentle, consolidating pat on his shoulder, while Karim is internally thankful that he lacks all memories of such a horrid and regrettable life decision. He then wisely brings the conversation back on topic.

“To make things clear, the whole team is going to shuffle in position. Cristiano will play on the wing.”

“But I play on the wing,” Xabi interrupts.

“Not any more,” Isco chimes, with perhaps more malice than expected from the docile, young Spaniard. “You’re slow as fuck.”

Xabi halts in his snickering long enough to appear displeased. “Who died and made you two captains.”

“Karim has always been our captain!” Isco keeps his voice affirmative, although he is practically hiding behind the Frenchman, poking his head over Karim’s shoulder every time he delivers a retort. “And he just saved our asses from unemployment. So you better drop the douchebag act and listen to him!”

Xabi narrows his eyes, an ominous shadow falling over his cruel features. "You wanna say that to my face, you stubby little runt?"

"No." Isco's entire body is shielded by the Frenchman now. "You can hear me just fine over here."

“Okay, thanks, Isco.” Karim shifts to give the young Spaniard an encouraging pat on the back. “But I can take it from here.”

The Frenchman receives the plate of cheese from Isco and expects him to sit in the vacant spot next to Sergio. Isco doesn’t move from his place, however.

“Xabi will play in defensive midfield—” Karim continues, only to be interrupted again by the bearded Spaniard.

“Hell fucking no.”

“—Alongside Khedira. Arbeloa is right back. Marcelo left back.”

“I appreciate your ingenuity.” It is the Brazilian who interjects this time. “And I use the word ingenuity very loosely, specifically in the context of someone with so little proficiency and base intelligence—no offense, of course. But don’t you think changing the positions of half the team at this stage is rash and senseless, even by your lofty standards?”

“Yeah, I get why this might seem like a terrible idea,” Karim says just as his teammates begin to whisper among themselves, “But think of it this way—what do we have to lose? If we keep doing what we’ve been doing, we’ll be relegated for sure. And what would you guys do besides football, anyway? Cristiano waited tables. Sergio worked in a deli. I apparently posed seductively with fruit. And Luka—” Karim pauses as he and the small Croat lock eyes, the latter displaying the icy detachment of any homicidal sociopath. “—I don’t know what the fuck he does in his free time, but that tear drop tattoo was not there yesterday!”

“Pepe and I worked for the Secret Intelligence Service,” Marcelo chides with an air of snobbery, which Karim is quick to shut down.

“Well, congratulations to both of you. You’re smarter than 95 percent of the people out there, but here you are, playing football with the rest of us. There’s a reason, isn’t there?”

Marcelo concedes with a sigh. “Football is my passion. What can I say?”

“And what about you?” Karim returns his attention to Xabi, who is still shaking his head in stubborn discontentment. “What did you do before football?”

“I sold cigarettes to children.”

Karim feels his invigoration speech evaporate from the sheer absurdity, leaving only Isco to fill the void. “Wow, I honestly can’t think of a more asshole-ish thing to do.”

“He could be a pedophile,” Sergio helpfully contributes, to which the bearded Spaniard snorts.

“Don’t pin that shit on me. We all know if any of us is a pedophile, that’ll be Arbeloa.”

“Oh my god.” Alvaro—who had otherwise been quietly smiling and winking and making finger through fist gestures at Karim—gawks at the appalling insult. “That’s so fucking rude.”

“Please.” Xabi rolls his eyes. “I saw the way you were looking at that little boy playing catch with his dad.”

“I said he would be a fine piece of ass in ten years. Ten years!” The dark-haired Spaniard throws his hands in the air. “Besides, everyone knows that I like my men tall, and rugged, and burly, and bald, and with a sexy French accent, and a _huge_ —”

“Um,” Karim interrupts at the same time as Isco, who groans out in exasperation, “Guys, can we please focus?”

The door opens then, just wide enough for a demure Welshman to peak his head through. “Sorry, I’m late, Karim.”

“Ah, great!” Xabi bemoans. “Who invited this asshole?”

“Alright, okay, that’s another thing.” Karim maneuvers past his teammates, dragging Gareth through the door before the Welshman could slink away and disappear. “We all collectively need to stop being a dick to Bale. I get you guys are pissed that he cost the club a fortune, but that’s not his fault. He’s living in the same shithole as the rest of us. And if we’re gonna keep our jobs, we need to work together as a team. Gareth, here—believe it or not—is a fine footballer.”

The Real Madrid players all grumble reluctantly in acceptance, while Bale looks at Karim tearily, as if he were the physical embodiment of all that is virtuous and good.

“Okay, take a seat,” Karim nudges the Welshman towards the vacant spot beside Sergio. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”

The Frenchman then fumbles through his last page of notes, before asking, “Where the hell is di Maria?”

“Undergoing gastric lavage,” Marcelo supplies sympathetically. “Too many pies.”

“Is he alright?”

“Nothing permanently damaging. Pepe is ensuring a speedy recovery, but it is highly improbable that he will be available for the next match.”

“And I don’t suppose we have a nutritionist.” Karim turns to Isco who shakes his head. “We need to do something about his weight. He can’t be a footballer like this. Any ideas?”

“I do have a Bachelor’s degree in pharmaceutical chemistry and nutrition science, before getting my Ph.D. in Russia Literature,” Marcelo offers, “And Pepe wrote a thesis on maximizing fitness throughout development in fourth grade.”

“Fine, can I count on you two—”

“Of course.”

“—without insulting him?”

“Probably not.”

Karim sighs. “Can you try?”

“Fine,” Marcelo yields after a brief stare-down. “I must say your trauma induced confabulation disorder is quite fascinating. Not only are your memories distorted, your entire personality seems to have shifted in accordance to your fabricated past. Would you consider donating your brain to science if something ill-fated and untimely were to happen in the near future?”

Karim looks at the hopeful Brazilian for a long, suspenseful minute, before annunciating each syllable with utmost care. “No. Fucking. Way.”

~~

The team is all nervous energy as they wait in the tunnel before their match against Sevilla. It will be their first outing since Mourinho’s departure, and word has spread like wildfire about the radical changes made to Real Madrid's tactics, about Cristiano’s new role as left-winger. The Bernabéu is filled to the brim with fans and detractors alike, and to Karim, it feels almost like home.

“We’re playing with only three in front of the keeper,” the Frenchman says to Sergio, Pepe, Marcelo, and Alvaro. “So communicate with one another and keep the back line tight. And I don’t care if the opponent has heterochromia or the cutest ass you’ve ever seen, we need to focus and stay in position!”

There is a chorus of dejected “oh”s coming from his defenders, which Karim chooses to ignore, before moving down the line to where the midfield has congregated. 

“The opponent is probably stronger, faster, more organized, experienced, and confident, or just plain better than us in every way possible, which is why we need to work as a team. I know how a few of you enjoy inflicting pain on others—” He shoots an accusing glare at Luka and Xabi. “—But a sending off will fuck us over more than anything the opponent can throw at us. It’s not difficult to be somewhat decent human beings for 90 minutes. I’m counting on you guys.”

“Youyay areyay anyay inspirationyay.” Khedira pinches together his thick brows, his gibberish solemn and sincere. “Andyay Iyay amyay onoredhay otay ayplay alongsideyay youyay.”

“Thank you, Sami.” Karim nods, patting the German on the back as he walks past. “But we haven’t won anything yet.”

Karim then turns to Cristiano and Gareth, who both look as if they would rather die than face the demanding crowd. 

“I’ll be between defenders,” the Frenchman says, “So most likely, they’ll have me covered. It’s up to you guys to cut inside and create space—”

“I-I can’t play on the wing.” Cristiano clutches at his tousled hair, his expression torn and fragile beneath bristly brows and unkempt facial hair. “I don’t know anything about attacking or making runs or scoring. I can’t, Karim—I’m sorry, I just—”

“Get a hold of yourself, Ronaldo,” Karim quiets the panicking Portuguese, gripping onto his shoulders before the tortured soul could crumble into fetal position. “No one has a better goal scoring record than you. Not even me. And that’s god damn insulting considering you’re a defender and I’m the center forward.”

“They’re own goals, though,” Cris snuffles miserably.

“Either way, you’re a goal scoring machine. Just do me a favor and stay the fuck away from our goal.”

With Cristiano momentarily pacified, Karim channels his attention to Gareth, who is also on the verge of tears the way a toddler would be after seeing another toddler cry.

“Hang in there, man,” the Frenchman sighs. “What is it that we say?”

“It’s okay to show emotion,” Gareth manages between hiccups and trembling lips, “As long as I can still play football through my tears.”

“Excellent.” Karim claps his wingers on their shoulder. “You’ll do great. Both of you.”

The Frenchman finds Isco last, who had remained a sizable distance from the rest of the team, fumbling with his shin guard and the laces of his boots. Sometimes Karim preferred solidarity before crucial matches so he could pray to Allah, and he wonders if Isco prays to his God as well.

The Spaniard manages a shy smile when he sees the Frenchman approaching.

“You doing alright?” Karim says once Isco has risen to his feet.

“As alright as everyone else around here.” The Spaniard lets out a soft little laugh, rubbing nervously at the scruff beneath chin.

“Yeah, well, what’s the worse that can happen? We lose.”

“And the crowd will whistle,” Isco frowns. “The media will write terrible, awful things. And it will be demoralizing, humiliating.”

“No matter which club you play for,” Karim says sternly, “No matter how many matches you win or how many goals you score, there will always be people who whistle, news stories that highlight all your faults and none of your achievements. It’s something to get used to, but there are also people who believe in you too.”

Isco looks at Karim, brown eyes clear and shining, and it makes the Frenchman think that perhaps he had said more than he intended. 

“I feel like you’re the only one who believes in us,” the Spaniard eventually decides, “And even that—it’s something we’re not used to. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Disappoint me?” Karim raises his brows. “Why would I be disappointed?”

“Because you’ve done so much for us,” Isco insists, “And we—well, we’re shit.”

“Just go out there and do your best.” Karim says as the officials signal a brief countdown. “And even if we lose this match, there will be time to improve, more matches left to win. No one will blame you for trying.”

White light floods through the tunnel, as the voices of thousands of fans echo along thick, tiered walls. Karim feels Isco tense beside him as they watch their teammates disappear one by one into the lights and sounds of the stadium. 

“You ready?” The Frenchman doesn’t move until Isco takes a hesitant step forward, wringing his hands along the fabric of his shorts before balling them into fists.

“Yeah.” The small Spaniard smiles, and it almost reaches his eyes, almost eluding the same confidence and boyish-charm that Karim is so accustomed to seeing. “Let’s do this.”


	6. Got me tossin' and turnin' and can't sleep at night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am overwhelmed with Criska feels after writing this chapter.
> 
> Sorry I'm angsting a bit in a crack fic, but Real Madrid has wounded me deeply this past few months.

If Karim had learned anything from his 26 years of lackadaisically meandering through life, it is that one cannot be disappointed if one does not have expectations. He isn’t sure what he had expected when he conjured up this plan, fielding the team in positions that are only natural to his reality of Real Madrid. But regardless of his cavalier planning, his teammates do not magically fall in sync, the passes do not string together, the floodgate of goals does not open.

Cristiano seems lost on the wing—clumsy and ungainly, desperate to achieve, but lacking in all forms of grace and skill. Gareth on the opposite wing does marginally better, intermittently bursting forward with dynamic runs, only to retreat tearful and distressed from the taunts hurled from opposing players. Isco shows flashes of brilliance in the midfield, but his vision is often muddled by self-doubt, too hesitant to join the attack, too shy to take on challenges.

Sevilla scores in the 25th minute, and it’s a shock to no one. Their pacey winger beats the offside trap before squaring the ball to the far post for an easy tap in. Karim only knows too well the body language of his teammates after conceding—the sag in their shoulder, the heaviness of their steps, the defeat in their eyes. The crowd jeers, but that’s not anything new.

The Frenchman wipes the perspiration below his chin, feeling his own breath heavy and resigned. What he would give for a sprightly di Maria at this point, a coherent Khedira, an assertive Xabi organizing the midfield, a confident Ronaldo creating goals out of nothing.

His mind inevitably drifts to Iker Casillas, shouting between the goal posts and invigorating the team even when they are a goal or two down.

But Karim is not Iker. He does not shout or clap or shed tears with the passionate crowd. He does not kiss Cristiano after he scores the game winning goal or strangle Ramos after he carelessly earns a sending off.

Karim occupies a small niche in Real Madrid—significant, but small. He has always disliked the media’s coinage of “BBC” to describe Real’s front three. It invites unfair criticism, sandwiching the Frenchman between the best player in the world and the most expensive in the world. He is roped in with the stars among the stars, to be measured by ungodly standards when he very much considers himself closer to human than a celestial body.

The Frenchman has never aspired to be the best in the world, just a respectable version of himself. He doesn’t mind being the leaf to a flower, the frame to a picture, or any other tacky bland-but-necessary-complement-to-an-object-of-wonder metaphor that illustrate this idea. It’s just a pity that the flowers and pictures in their current scenario are too busy wallowing in self-deprecation.

“Cut inside,” he tells Cristiano and Gareth before the start of the second half.

“What?” The Portuguese furrows his thick brows. “But that’s your position.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just keep on cutting inside. That’s all we ever do.”

Cristiano nods, hesitancy etched in his potentially handsome features. 

“Look for one another, make runs, overlap,” the Frenchman insists, “You, me, and Gareth, we can play any of the positions up front. We’ll be a nightmare to mark, if we do it right.”

Karim has seen it done right, has experienced it personally, but conveying this notion to someone who has never fathomed such a caliber of teamwork and understanding is like describing colors to a dog. Nonetheless, he tries his best to inspire the team, not so much with words but with actions. Karim holds on to the ball awhile longer, invites challenges that he normally would avaoid, chases after passes that he knows he can never reach. 

At the hour mark, Isco manages to poke the ball away, regaining possession at the edge of their box. He passes to Karim up field, and the Frenchman dribbles past one defender before skipping over the second. By the time he draws a third, Gareth manages to lose his mark. Karim releases him with a superb pass into space, and the Welshman bursts free into the opponent’s half, leaving his defender in the dust.

It’s a long run towards goal but a definite one-on-one. And if there’s one thing Gareth Bale can do, it’s to run as if his life depended on it.

“Your hairband makes you look like a twat!” someone shouts just as the Welshman takes his first touch.

“I heard you got a brain transplant, and the brain rejected you!” came another taunt immediately.

“You’re so ugly, when you walk past a toilet, it flushes itself!”

The insults pour like lashing rain, and Karim can see the tenseness in the Welshman’s shoulders, the ache with each step he takes.

“Don’t listen to them!” Karim shouts, his composure crumbling, his soul aflame. “Fuck them! Fuck them all!”

Sevilla’s goalkeeper leaves his line in a desperate effort to narrow the angle. Gareth covers his ears and squeezes his eyes shut. He takes the shot blindly, lobbing it over the keeper and into the open net.

The roar of the home fans engulfs the stadium, as Gareth curtails his run, skidding to a halt by the byline. His teammates soon crowd around him, laughing and cheering, ruffling his hair and patting his back. Gareth sees his captain approaching and smiles so uninhibitedly and genuinely that it touches Karim’s aloof, French heart. 

As they return to their positions for kickoff, Karim finds Cristiano a few steps behind the others, shaking his head in awe. 

“Come on,” the Frenchman says, nudging the Portuguese in the arm. “The match isn’t over yet.”

Gareth’s goal galvanizes the team, and Real Madrid is finally playing with the smallest modicum certainty and finesse. They control the midfield, dictating the play with swift, economical passing. Cristiano integrates into the attack, finding space and creating space for others. He takes on defenders, wins aerial challenges, and even demands for the ball when he is free.

He goes for goal with increasing confidence, trying his luck from outside the box. He manages to hit the woodwork three times, and Karim supposes that some things never change.

They might walk off with a draw, but they deserve a win, and it doesn’t happen until the second minute of extra time when a corner from Luka is headed clear by a defender. The wayward ball lands at the feet of Gareth Bale, and the Welshman curls in a beauty to the far post.

It’s too far for the keeper and too high for the defender—or anyone on the field really, except for one. Cristiano rises immaculately, dominating the air like a majestic avian king of the sky. He pings the ball into the top corner before the keeper can even react.

The volume inside the stadium is deafening. Cristiano appears frozen in time before his elated teammates and the vociferous crowd, hardly comprehending that he has scored what is likely the match-winning goal. 

The final whistle is blown only minutes later, and Karim and his teammates celebrate as if they had reached the final. Gareth in his ecstasy tackles the Frenchman to the ground, and they are soon joined by Cristiano, Sergio, Isco. Marcelo and Pepe stand over them, raising their hands to the crowd and urging them to cheer even louder.

Karim lies on the grass for a bit longer after everyone has dispersed, and Isco is the last to leave, offering a hand to pull the Frenchman to his feet. Karim pulls Isco to the ground instead, and their limbs tangle momentarily as the Frenchman bear-hugs the small Spaniard, ruffling his sweat matted hair. _Real Madrid, Ale, Ale_ reverberates around the stadium, while Isco’s laughter is warm against the shell of his ear.

“This,” Karim says as he raises a hand to the ink black sky, haloed by arena lights in fluorescent white. “This is Real Madrid.”

~~

“I’m not sure about this.” Cristiano swallows nervously, watching thick, dark curls falling at his feet and amassing on the ceramic tiles of their bathroom.

“I figured that after the last match, you’d trust me more,” Karim mumbles over the bobby pins between his lips. He combs Cris’ hair to the side, before shaving a thin, decorative stripe at the partition.

“I don’t want to have the same hair as you.”

The Frenchman snorts. “Fuck if I’m gonna let you cramp my style.”

Karim trims the sides shorter despite the Portuguese’ edginess. He has already shaven his beard and preened his eyebrows. The hair is the last to go.

“You sure this is going to work?” Cris asks with a hint of stiffness that he can’t quite hide. “What if I just end up embarrassing myself?”

“I used to know someone in the same boat as you,” Karim says after a moment’s consideration.

“Does he get fucked up for three days every time he misinterprets a high five for a hug?”

“No. He’s a good guy—generous, brave, hard-working, kind.”

Karim tells Cristiano about the best footballer he knows, a man who carries the hopes of an entire nation on his shoulders. Some call him ungrateful and arrogant, but that’s only because he holds himself to ridiculous, inhuman standards. He strives to succeed, to reach his personal perfection, even when countless others would relish in his failure. He never feigns modesty, and he’s God-awful at hiding his emotions, regardless of whether he’s happy, frustrated, or disappointed with himself. 

So when he finally fell for someone, no one was fooled because it was written on his face since day one, the way he looks at the guy as if he were made of pure gold. They were teammates, talismans to their respective countries, and when they played together, they fell in sync so naturally that they were a force to be reckoned with. This lasted for years, the hope and promise of something grand and beautiful, but neither of them did anything about it. Their careers and families and the pressures associated with their public image discouraged their pursuit for happiness. 

“But it’s kind of fucked up if you think about it,” Karim says, combing his fingers through Cristiano’s gel slick hair. “That kind of shit between them—the way they seem so complete with each other—it’s not something you give up on. And then, one bad season and the guy moves to another country, and yeah, I’m sure they stay in touch, but the chances have come and gone, and neither of them took any of it.”

The Frenchman pauses then, reminiscing on the day he arrived in Madrid without knowing a single word in Spanish. That season had been the toughest of his career, a year when words had lost all their uses and meaning. Karim had to communicate through actions, learn through actions, and it didn’t take long at all for him to understand that the body language between those two spoke louder than any words imaginable.

“It’s sad really. They were right for each other. They deserved to be together.”

“Christ,” the Portuguese snorts, snapping the Frenchman from his pensive reverie. “Quit acting as if you have friends other than us.”

~~

After their third miraculously consecutive win, Xabi and Álvaro throw a party at their place.

“I think you should give it a shot,” Álvaro coos, draping himself over the armrest of the chair that Karim currently occupies. “It’s good to try new things. I didn’t like zucchinis at first, but then I tried them, and it turns out that I really like zucchinis.”

The Spaniard is drawing tiny circles on Karim’s chest. It would normally make the Frenchman feel deeply uncomfortable, but after his second beer, the awkwardness is nothing but a vague twinge in the general area of his soul.

“And when I say zucchini,” Álvaro drops his voice to a low seductive tenor, “I mean dick.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured,” Karim says. He finds it kind of funny, and he’s not sure why. He laughs anyway, just as he locks eyes with Isco from across the room.

The small Spaniard is sitting on the stools in the kitchen with Sergio and Marcelo. He has a PBR in his hand, and he quickly casts his eyes down to the open can once Karim notices. The Frenchman does not approach Isco until the latter has ventured to the open balcony for some fresh air. 

“Hey.” Karim leans against the iron banisters, mirroring Isco. The Spaniard gives him a little tight-lipped smile, before taking another sip of his beer. “Lame party, am I right?”

Isco lofts a brow. “It’s not that different from any of our other parties.”

“There is not a single female present.”

“Yeah,” the small Spaniard smiles, “Not that different.” 

“Jesus,” Karim downs his own beer, and a brief moment of comfortable silence passes before Isco speaks again.

“You were having fun with Álvaro, though,” Isco says in a decidedly offhanded manner, or at least, he attempts to.

“He told one good joke, and I laughed. It doesn’t make up for an entire night of trying to solicit bathroom sex.”

“So I’m guessing you’re not taking him up on his offer?” If it weren’t for the subtle intonation on the last syllable, Karim would have interpreted it as an observation, rather than a question.

“Do you really have to guess?”

Isco looks at his half-empty drink, frowning. “If you want to, you should. But I’ve seen Álvaro flirt with a tree when he’s drunk enough.”

“I wasn’t going to,” the Frenchman laughs, “Thanks for the advice, though.”

“I just think you deserve better, that’s all.” Isco flushes almost immediately. “But I don’t want you hung up on Pipita again.”

“Ugh,” Karim groans in revulsion. It’s not a concept he can ever get used to, this alleged affair he had with Higuaín before the end of last season. From what Karim considers reality, Pipita was a slightly volatile but overall good friend—funny, laidback, a bro on and off the field. But under no circumstances would Karim want to see his Argentinian teammate nude outside of when he is contractually obligated to do so.

By the time the Frenchman finally has his gag reflex under control, he notices the small Spaniard watching him intently, brows furrowed in thoughtful examination.

“Marcelo mentioned it before, but I sort of brushed him off at first, but after your head injury—did you wake up _straight_?”

"What? Because I don't want to sleep with Álvaro or Pipita?"

Isco nods.

Karim is momentarily caught out by the forwardness of the question, before deciding it’s presumptions absurd. One cannot draw conclusions to a person’s sexuality simply based on their attraction (or lack of) towards Arbeloa or Higuaín, of all people. But then again, the status of Karim’s sexuality according to the current public knowledge is perhaps a more important topic to elucidate.

“Was I openly _gay_?”

“Well, football is somewhat incestuous in itself,” Isco says almost euphemistically. “And sexuality is more of a spectrum than a strict either/or type of thing.”

“So is that a yes?” 

The Spaniard falters, evidently choosing his words wisely. “No one likes to use labels, but let’s just say this entire team is kind of gay.”

Okay, Karim thinks. He’s not exactly shocked to hear that.

“But you should do whatever makes you happy,” Isco adds, as an afterthought. “Girls, guys, both, whatever. It’s okay. No one will judge—here, at least.”

He downs the rest of his drink immediately after that, and Karim thinks it’s cute, the way Isco rubs self-consciously at his scruffy beard once he is done.

“It’s funny,” the Frenchman muses, turning and leaning his back against the metal railings. “I had a similar conversation with Cristiano earlier in the week. About doing what would make him happy.”

Isco scrunches his nose. “Is that why he cut his hair and shaved his beard?”

“Well, I did that for him. Don’t you think he looks better?”

“I guess,” the Spaniard sniffs. “I never realized he has such a resting bitchface beneath all that hair.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“So why’d you do that for him?”

“I thought he should try and get Ricky back.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s still in love with him. I think he has a good shot.”

“Um.” Isco bites the corner of his lip, worry evident in his shining, brown eyes.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” Karim insists. “It’s not that hard to get a hold of Ricky. He’s just playing football for a club in Italy.”

Isco stares at Karim briefly, mouth ajar. “Who told you that?”

“Uh—nobody. I just assumed.” The Frenchman shrugs. “Am I wrong?”

“He’s in a club alright,” Isco says, “It’s not football, though.”


	7. You don't love me (no, no, no)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off pitch adventures and Criska! Enjoy!

Ricky does not work at a strip club, which Karim is privately thankful for, because the image of the saintly Brazilian in platform boots and topless dancer pasties is perhaps just as sacrilegious as if the actual Son of God were made to sport such divulging attire. 

No, Ricky works for a casino club, which would have been perfectly acceptable—socially and otherwise—if it weren’t for the fact that this particular network, christened Associazione Casinò Milan or A.C. Milan, housed members of perhaps the most terrifying organized crime family in Italy, the kind that shears your fingers off if you rack up too large of a debt playing roulette or betting on cock fights.

“Christ, call him again.” Karim swerves the rusty sedan dangerously, narrowly evading a fire hydrant at the end of the sharp turn. “Are you calling him?”

“It’s no use.” Isco frowns in the passenger seat. “He’s not picking up.”

By the time Isco fully disclosed the enigma that is Ricky, most of their Real Madrid teammates have drunk themselves to oblivion. Karim stepped over an unconscious Sergio before patting an unconscious Marcelo for car keys. The Frenchman was technically the designated driver for this fine evening, but he felt no particular remorse for shirking his duties. It wasn’t like his teammates would be driving under the influence in his absence, having no vehicle to operate.

Ronaldo had left for Italy earlier that night, so his flight must’ve landed not long ago. By the time Isco and Karim reach Italy, they would be at least three hours behind, giving the Portuguese plenty of time to stir up an unfathomable amount of trouble. 

“Damn it, think!” The Frenchman shouts aloud to himself. How would one go about finding one’s criminal ex-boyfriend? Cristiano couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to simply drop by Ricky’s workplace with flowers and a serenade.

“I got something.” Isco switches his phone on speaker. “He’s not responding, but—his phone must’ve answered on its own.”

Karim hears shuffling sounds interspersed with muffled dialogue, characteristic of butt-dialed calls. 

“Sorry, but I’m looking for Ricardo Leite. He works here, do you know—H-Hey! Let go of me! I just wanted to—”

The call drops then, right along with any sort of sanguinity Karim has left. 

“I’m calling the police,” Isco declares before proceeding to do so. His phone rings three times before an operator picks up. “Hi, we think our friend is in danger. He’s at Casino Milan, and we just received a distressing call. We think he was abducted, and—hey, wait—hello? Hello?”

Isco removes his phone from his ear and looks at it as if it were the eighth wonder of the world. “They laughed at me and hung up. What does that even mean?”

Karim grits his teeth as he veers into a traffic circle, earning a few outraged honks. “It means we’ll have to do everything ourselves. You know the address to this place?”

~~

After arriving in Milan, Karim rents an equally ramshackle car, and with Isco’s helpful navigation, it takes them less than an hour to reach the infamous casino club. The Frenchman parks across the street from A.C. Milan—a three-tiered building at the corner of a busy intersection. Inside the club is jovial and incandescent, as the party rages on into the early hours of the morning. Crowds amass down the entire block to wait for their entry, their impatience discouraged by burly bouncers dressed in fitted black.

“Security looks pretty tight,” Isco frowns. “How are we going to get in?”

Just then, a large, white limo slinks to a halt before the luminous nightclub, unloading dozens of scantily dressed, well-sculpted men—Chippendale dancers. Karim is regretful to say that he has an idea.

~~

After obtaining the needed attire from a conveniently placed erotic costume store, Karim and Isco return to the casino club, sporting nothing except for black bootie shorts and bowties with shirt cuffs.

“I don’t know about this, Karim.” Isco rubs nervously at his bare arms. “Would I have to strip or give a lap dance?”

“No,” the Frenchman sighs, mentally replaying all the Bond movies he had seen throughout the years. “Just act confident, like you’re a high end courtesan and not a stripper at some night club with his rent due the next day. And if someone tries to pull you away, just say you’re booked by someone important.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know.” The Frenchman waves a dismissive hand. “The king. Make something up.”

“Okay,” Isco says dejectedly, following Karim to the side entrance where all the other dancers had entered. 

The door is guarded by a beefy bouncer with a neck tattoo, who is almost as large as the door itself. Karim is just about to say something thoughtless and ill improvised, when the large man winks and smiles, allowing them inside without any question.

They make their way down a narrow corridor leading to the jovial heart of the casino club. Inside, they hear the dissonant yet melodic chorus of bells ringing and coins clanking. At the tables sit well-dressed men in sports jackets and women in evening gowns, intermingling with entertainers in feathers and flounces, sporting comically revealing attires very similar to what Karim and Isco are wearing now. In the center of the large dome-shaped room is a fountain protected by tall, marble statues—Roman-esque in style, although much better endowed than your typical male nude.

Karim sees Riccardo Montolivo descending a winding staircase connected to a second floor balcony. The Italian, dressed sharply in a fitted black suit and a red tie, has a faint but satisfying grin tugging at his lips—the smile of someone who eludes power and influence. Behind him is Mario Balotelli clothed in a much more demure dark denim, whom Karim could have easily overlooked if it weren’t for his stark blond Mohawk.

“I have a feeling we’re supposed to follow them,” the Frenchman says, just as the pair of Italians disappears behind a covert staff-only door concealed by a potted palm tree.

Karim and Isco shuffle to the other side of the casino, only to realize that the door is locked after giving the knob a good, solid turn.

“Shit,” Karim swears, inspecting the lock. “Maybe we can pick it. Got a credit card with you?”

“No,” Isco sulks, pulling at the fabric of his spandex shorts. “It’s not like I can keep my wallet in these. Christ, they’re so tight and thin, it’s like they’re painted on—”

“Can I help you with something, gentlemen?” came a stiff but genteel greeting in Italian. 

“ _El—El baño_ —” Karim stutters, without needing to act clueless and innocent exactly, since he barely speaks a word of Italian. “ _Por favor_.”

The usher sighs, rolling his eyes and pointing to a door festooned with a van Gogh styled portrait of a large rooster. Karim winces at the visual pun.

“ _Gracias_ ,” Isco half-squeaks as they both scurry past, entering the swanky restroom without causing any more suspicion.

“Great,” the small Spaniard says once they are inside. “What do we do now?”

“Hush,” Karim interrupts Isco, upon noticing a peculiar sound. “Listen.”

“Um, I don’t really want to.” Isco looks disconcertingly between his shoes and a stall to the far right, currently occupied by a minimal of three people.

“I’m not talking about that,” the Frenchman scoffs, maneuvering past the Spaniard to the vent in the corner of the restroom. He presses his ear close before realizing the reverberated echoes of a muffled protest, followed by a distant exchange of dialogue in Italian. He catches Ricky’s name, he’s sure of it.

Karim grips around the metal crosshatches and pulls. The screen pops open without creating too much of a ruckus.

They enter the ventilation shaft with the Frenchman leading. The passage is wide enough for their shoulders to pass and tall enough for them to sit on their heels, although it can hardly be deemed claustrophobia friendly. Karim hears the dialogues grow clearer, the moans of the unfortunate victim louder. He can’t tell if any of the voices belong to Cristiano or Ricky, but he prays that he would get the answers he wanted soon.

Isco sneezes just as they approach a fork in the tunnel. It’s not a particularly loud sneeze, but the sound appears to only amplify with each bounce along the metal walls. Everything falls silent almost immediately afterwards—no more muffled protests, no more furtive dialogues in Italian. Time stretches almost indefinitely as Karim held his breath, his muscles taut and motionless as they wait.

This isn’t good, the Frenchman thinks, not good at all, just as the metal base of the vent before him is pierced with a flurry of bullets.

“Oh shit!” Karim startles, falling backwards onto his rear and knocking into Isco. The sudden shift in their combined weight proves too much for the vent to hold, and they fall through in a graceless, dust-coated pile of limbs. It wasn’t too big of a drop, but the hardwood floor beneath is solid and unforgiving. 

“Don’t shoot!” Karim manages between coughs, holding up both hands as soon as he regains enough awareness to see three sets of guns pointed at them. “Ricky, it’s us.”

“Karim?” The former Brazilian footballer hesitates between his two Italian colleagues, his owlish eyes shimmering with confusion beneath dark, unkempt fringes. “What the fuck?”

Ricky has a black leather jacket on, open in the front to reveal a washed-out vintage tee. His jeans are form fitting, mineral washed and shredded at the knees. A light stubble dusts his cheeks and jaw, obscuring his pale, boyish features. He looks like some handsome anti-hero in an afterschool preteen drama. 

“You know these fools?” Balotelli tilts his head towards Ricky, neither lowering his gun nor removing his gaze from the two trespassers.

“No—Yes—” Ricky winces. “What the hell are you guys wearing?”

“We’re here looking for Chris,” Isco blurts out, rattled but earnest. “He came here to tell you he’s still in love with you, and—I know you probably didn’t want to hear it, but please don’t hurt him.”

Ricky’s face does something complicated, his expression a mixture of confusion, anger, helpless, and exasperation all at once. 

Karim locks eyes with the hostage, who happens to be Claudio Marchisio gagged and tied to a wooden chair. He has a tattoo of a majestic, galloping zebra on his left bicep, possibly the symbol of a rival gang. Marchisio arches an apathetic brow at the Frenchman, as if the latter had disrupted a normal Tuesday night sort of event.

“ _Gesù Cristo_!” Riccardo Montolivo is the first to lower his gun, appearing more peeved than menacing. “Do something about them, please?”

Ricky makes a frustrated sound as he trudges towards Karim and Isco like an angry mom, pulling them away by their elbows. He leads them to a broom closet door, before opening it and shoving them inside. Cristiano is sitting in the lonely, makeshift cell, holding a bouquet of wilted roses.

“What the hell are you guys wearing?” is the Portuguese’s choice of greeting.

“Shut up.” Ricky closes the door behind him. He has a wrinkle between his brows, and his cheeks are dusted red, undeniably on the verge of throwing a fit. “I am so— _angry_ at you guys! What part of ‘don’t come looking for me ever again’ don’t you understand? ”

“Look—we’re sorry,” Karim says. He’s not exactly sure what he’s apologizing for, but he has little doubt that he should be apologizing. “This was my idea, and I take full responsibility.”

“And Karim had a traumatic head injury two months back,” Isco adds on behalf of the Frenchman. “And he never quite recovered from the memory loss. He didn’t know that you were— _here_. Or that you’re a dangerous mobster. We’re all really, _really_ sorry.”

“I’m not sorry,” Cristiano says, his voice barely a whisper, but it sounded infinitely loud in the small, dark room. Ricky arches a dangerous brow. 

“For fuck’s sake, don’t make this any worse,” Isco mutters under his breath, just as the Portuguese rises to his feet, pushing aside his two costumed teammates.

“No, I’m not sorry,” he repeats resolutely, refusing to budge under Ricky’s murderous glare. “I’ve wanted to see you for a very long time, and I have to thank Karim for giving me the courage, even if he’s touched in the head and hardly makes sense half of the time.”

“Oh, I don’t believe this.” Ricky’s laugh is cynical. “Do you know who I am? Who I work for? You guys could be dead right now.”

“I don’t care,” Cristiano says. “I came here for a proper explanation. I deserve one, after everything that we’ve been through.”

“What more is there to explain?” The Brazilian snaps. “It was great while it lasted, but things change. People change. I’m going back to the mafia. We can’t be together anymore. Do I really need to spell it out?”

“You meant so much to me,” the Portuguese insists with an odd quiver in his voice. “You still do.”

Ricky buries his face in his hands. “I am about to scream.”

“Just—can we just sit down and talk?”

“No.” Ricky shakes his head. “If you haven’t noticed, there’s a Juventus mole tied to a chair at the end of the corridor. I’m working right now.”

“Tell me how you’ve managed to move on so quickly, because no matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

There is a brief lull after Cristiano’s proclamation. Ricky looks at the Portuguese as if he had been deeply offended, while Karim and Isco exchange concerned looks.

“I can’t look at anyone else without wishing it was you.” Cristiano eventually breaks the stalemate. “I miss cooking Brazilian and Portuguese dishes and sharing desserts at restaurants. I miss going to practice together and jogging side by side. I miss hearing you sing in the shower every morning, even though you don't like your singing voice and think no one can hear you, but we all could. And it hurts to think that everything we had is gone for good. Please, if anything, tell me how you've moved on. So I can move on too.”

Ricky fails to conjure up words, his mouth wordlessly parted. He looks at every member in the room with helpless frustration, before returning his gaze to the expectant Portuguese. Ricky’s cold veneer is failing, even if for the briefest of seconds.

“You did move on, right?” Cristiano says, his voice softening.

“Shut up!” The Brazilian’s anger flares once more, but it hid something more vulnerable, a stifled sort of sorrow and pain etched in his delicate features. “For Christ’s sake, shut up! Or I swear, I’ll have you—”

A knock at the door momentarily halts Ricky in his inadvertent meltdown. “Hey, can we come in? We need to talk.”

“Can it wait?” Ricky manages, his voice hoarse.

“No, it can’t.” The knob turns, and the door cracks open, revealing two apologetic Italians. “There probably will never be a good time for this sort of conversation but—the thing is—you’re too _nice_ , for this."

Ricky stares at his colleagues for a long second. “What?”

“Ricky, you've been nothing but a loyal and valuable member of the family.” Montolivo grimaces, clearly trying to handle this delicate situation with as much tact as possible. "But you’re not cut out to be a mobster."

“I’m too nice for the mafia?" The Brazilian blinks animatedly. "I grew up with the mafia. I’ve been a _soldato_ since I was seventeen. Is it because of these Madrid idiots? I swear I'm taking care of them.”

“We saw you the other day,” Montolivo regretfully informs, “Donating to the children’s hospital and the animal shelter. And then, you brought baby animals from the shelter to the children’s hospital.”

“What are you talking about?” Ricky appears offended, despite the panic flickering in his eyes. “I blew it off on hookers! Hookers, hard liquor, and illegal drugs—like I said I would!”

“Give it up, man.” It’s Balotelli speaking now. “Everyone already knows.”

“Okay, fine, I may have visited the hospital or the pound a couple of times.” The Brazilian argues desperately. “So what? It’s not like I’m soft when it comes to interrogations or weak when it comes to fights. I shouldn’t lose street cred just because I’m nice to children and animals.”

"You also convinced Jérémy, Keisuke, and Stephan to sing Christmas carols at the nursing home." 

"It was one time!" 

“Ricky.” Montolivo says his name like an apology, his lucid blue-green eyes shining with concern. “You’re like a brother to me, and you’re like a son to the Don." 

"This isn't happening." Ricky lets out a nervous chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief.

"We talk about you a lot, and we’re worried about you. You seem happy after returning from Madrid, even though sometimes, you’re really not. We just want what’s best for you.”

“So you’re telling to me _leave_ the family?”

“No.” The Italian is quick to clarify his intentions. “No, of course not. You will always be part of the family, no matter where you are.”

Ricky snuffles, although no actual tears fell. He’s must be an angry crier, and the Frenchman feels a touch of sympathy for the enigmatic Brazilian, who just can’t seem to catch a break today. Mobster or not, it must be hard to classily drag a bitch when you can’t tone down your snuffles.

“I know you’ve sworn loyalty,” Montolivo insists, “But just because you care for other people doesn’t mean you care for the family any less. And plenty of people outside of the family seem to care about you. Here, you have this man—” He waves in the general direction of Cristiano. “—who infiltrated the mafia just to see you. He is either madly in love, or incredibly stupid. Perhaps both.”

“I think I need to sit,” Ricky says numbly. “This has been such a shit day.”

Mario Balotelli helpfully provides a fold-up chair. 

"Take some time to think about it," Montolivo concludes. He clears his throat, more of a formality than anything, as he approaches Karim. “I’ve read about you in the papers, the man who transformed Real Madrid.” He extends a hand for the Frenchman to shake. “You’re practically a celebrity.”

“Thanks,” Karim responds warily to the odd compliment. 

“Whether Ricky returns to Madrid, it’s entirely up to him.” Montolivo muses with the aloof airiness of an eccentric businessman. “But let’s just say that you have some connections now, in Milan. If Ricky succeeds with you and finds happiness, consider A.C. Milan a sponsor and a business partner.”

Montolivo offers a card, which Karim has little choice but to tuck into the hem of his bootie shorts upon acceptance. The Italian makes his departure, giving Ricky a comforting squeeze on his shoulder as he passes.

“However, if you are to hurt my _fratello_ in any way,” he adds just as he reaches an elegant hand to the doorknob. “I promise I will send Nigel de Jong to beat your dick off with a cactus. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

The two Italians exit the broom closet after the threatening farewell, leaving Karim, Isco, Cristiano, and Ricky standing awkwardly in a hefty silence. 

“Um, I call shotgun.” Isco announces well in advance, perhaps anticipating their long, uncomfortable journey home.


	8. This is the life I live, and that's just the half of it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timing was not intentional at all, but happy July 4th!

“Chippendale dancers? Are you fucking kidding me?” Pipita is laughing so hard, that his eyes are practically bulging out of his skull. He slaps Karim’s shoulder in his uncontainable delight, narrowly knocking the Frenchman's beer from his hand.

“Okay, so we didn’t exactly cover ourselves in glory.” Karim laughs too. “But we were infiltrating a fucking gang. My dignity was the least of my concern.”

“Jesus Christ.” The Argentine sighs happily, wiping away a stray tear. “You could’ve called me up or something. I would’ve told Pablo to take it easy.”

Pablo is Pipita’s cousin from Argentina, currently residing in Italy on a phony student’s visa. Being a bouncer is one of his many occupations, along with drug dealing, debt collecting, scaremongering for hire, and other forms of shady businesses that flirt quite intimately with the boundaries of legality. Tattooed on his neck in large cursive is the name of Saint Anthony the Abbot, the patron saint of gravediggers, whom he prays to after a particularly sinful deed—or rumor has it, at least. He did not give Karim or Isco too hard of a time at the casino, but the Frenchman finds little reason to doubt the Argentine’s infamy. 

“Well, how was I supposed to know that your stripper network expanded all the way to Italy?” Karim half-snorts. “Besides, would you have helped us, actually, if we told you we’re breaking into Casino Milan?”

“It’s possible that I would’ve ratted you out.” Pipita concedes with a wayward grin. “Milan is probably one of our biggest venues, thanks to Ricky.”

“Yeah.” Karim sighs. “They’re one of our biggest sponsors now. Also thanks to Ricky.”

Karim offers to buy the next round, which Pipita shrugs off. All drinks are on the house tonight, the Argentine offers, since this is his strip club, and he can do whatever he wants.

They joke, chat, and reminisce for hours, like old war buddies finally reunited. And Karim supposes that they do share a similar bond, in a way, having fought together on the battlefield that is football. It’s probably a tad melodramatic to make such comparisons, but Karim is on his third beer, so he is allowed to reach into his normally constipated emotions. He has missed Pipita since the Argentine left Madrid, and _this_ Pipita is uncannily similar to his friend of four year—outspoken, guileless, and marginally obnoxious. The only noticeable difference is the impressively proliferating network of male strippers that the Argentine is currently directing. 

“I’m still working on a name for my club,” Pipita muses, swirling his drink. “I want something poetic and metaphoric, like Rocket to Uranus, or something. The rocket representing dick, and Uranus—well, you know.”

“Uh—yeah,” is Karim’s only reaction. 

“What do you think?” Pipita looks at the Frenchman with such earnest expectation, that Karim feels obliged to contribute something akin to a valid opinion.

“I dunno.” Karim scratches the short hairs at his neck. “It sounds more like a brothel than a strip club.”

“Well, you get what you pay for, that’s the motto of my business.” The Argentine winks. “And speaking of business, I didn’t realize Real Madrid is looking to expand finally, partnering with Milan, and all.”

“It wasn’t exactly intentional,” the Frenchman truthfully admits.

“I’m always open to doing business with an old friend.” Pipita’s grin is casual and hopeful at the same time. Karim snorts into his drink.

“Oh, don’t be an asshole,” the Argentine whines. “The last time I checked, Real Madrid isn’t exactly out of the relegation zone yet.”

Karim shrugs because it’s true. He supposes that more sponsorship would indeed benefit the humble club, although he doubts that Pipita’s investment would be anything substantial, considering the Argentine is still setting the foundations for his own enterprise. 

“We might not be as reputable as Milan,” Pipita avidly insists, “But our business has been booming since day one. We have our crowd of faithfuls, and _El Chori_ is going to be a star!”

At the back of the strip bar is the bedazzling center stage, and Karim chances a look only to find Raul Albiol’s unwaxed, leather-clad body sliding down a silver pole. The Callejón twins are offering admirable terpsichorean support on either side of the gangly Spaniard.

“Oh, Christ in Heaven,” the Frenchman gasps, horrified.

“I know right?” Pipita nudges him on the shoulder. “A star, I tell you. The brightest of the bright!”

"God damn it." Karim could barely tear his eyes away from the atrocity, ruefully noting that he now has one more memory to suppress.

“Anyway, you have tough schedule coming up, don’t you?” Pipita eventually changes the topic. “Atlético away, Malaga at home, and Barcelona away. What’re you thoughts on _El Clásico_?”

“ _El Clásico_?” The Frenchman blinks at his friend, caught out.

Pipita mirrors his confusion briefly, before slowly breaking into his usual obnoxious cackle. “Oh, Isco warned me about your memory loss issues. Jesus, it must suck. Do you get handicap parking at least?”

“ _El Clásico_ …is a thing?” Karim realizes how stupid he must sound, but it has escaped his mind completely until now—the prospect of facing Barcelona in a fierce clash anticipated by all of Spain. Do people still care, now that Real Madrid is at the bottom of the table?

“ _El Clásico_ has been going on for a century, at least,” Pipita explains, “Real Madrid and Barcelona battling to escape the relegation zone. _El Clásico de los necios_ —it’s meant to be ironic.”

Karim sighs, of course.

“It’s kind of like watching hobos fight with rusty, hobo knives,” the Argentine muses, scratching at his heavy stubble. “Intense, unpleasant, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. Barca’s had the upper hand for the past five years, but you really seem to have turned a sinking ship around, if that’s even possible.”

"Uh, yeah." Karim is unsure of how to respond. He should really be better at receiving compliments, particularly backhanded ones, at this point in his life.

“We’re all incredibly thrilled.” Pipita’s smile is genuine, at least. “Everyone I know is betting their life savings on you guys. Don’t let us down.”

~~

“Oh, how precious! You just got a letter from your biggest fan.”

Ricky smiles behind the stack of letters on top of the dining table, while Karim pours milk into his bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. Cristiano is hovering in the general vicinity of their kitchen, discernibly thrilled but mildly daunted to have his former lover in his life again. Their interactions are still a bit stiff and awkward, with Ricky prone to emotional switches and Cristiano almost pathetically afraid of slipping up or driving the Brazilian away with his usual ungainly blunders. The fact that Ricky chooses to spend more time in their apartment instead of his own somehow completely escapes the insecure Portuguese, but Karim refrains from stating the obvious, opting to let Cristiano mend his own fences.

“Dear Karim,” Ricky reads aloud, all smiles as he pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “My name is Lily, and I am six years old. I have a cat that is orange with stripes. I named him Karim. Karim likes to sleep all day and eat everyone’s food, but one time we had a mouse, and he caught the mouse, so everyone was proud of him for a day. I am throwing Karim a birthday party next Tuesday. You should come if you are not busy. Lost of love from your biggest fan, Lily.”

Ricky sighs contently, placing the crayon etched paper atop the pile of other letters he deems important enough for the Real Madrid players to return personally. It’s almost as tall as the pile of hate mail, which everyone ought to ignore. 

Karim chews thoughtfully at his Cheerios, as the Brazilian picks out another envelope. While Ricky has agreed to return to Madrid, he made no promise of returning to football. Instead, he spends his days lounging in their living room, cooking healthy meals, and paddling through their letters and paperwork that has been untouched for months. Karim doesn’t want to admit it, but he is somewhat desperate for Ricky to return to the pitch, so that they can actually make multiple substitutions per match. Marcelo is already negotiating with the board to resign the Brazilian playmaker. All that is left is to actually convince Ricky.

“Ugh.” Ricky blows out air contemptuously, tossing the next letter aside after only a fleeting glance.

“What’s wrong with that one?” Isco asks, joining the table with his bowl of Cocoa Rice Krispies.

“I usually ignore everything from Hristo Stoichkov,” Ricky says, “That man is so full of bitterness and unfair criticism, as if he can’t spare anything but downright contempt for Real Madrid. It’s like— _come on_ , guy—go outside, smell a flower, pet a dog, lighten up, and do something productive with your time.” The Brazilian contemplates briefly, before pocketing the letter for himself. “Maybe I should write that to him.”

Isco edges a little closer to Ricky, peering curiously at the next piece of mail. The Brazilian is a lot more pleasant now that he has stopped trying to be an asshole, and the Frenchman enjoys his company considerably, seeing as Ricky is one of the few quasi-sane people in this crazy, upside-down world—even if he still maintain strong ties to an organized crime family in Italy.

“Oh, and here’s one for Cristiano!” The Brazilian lets out a delighted, little laugh, and the Portuguese turns to him immediately, the way only a hopeless lover can. Ricky straightens in his seat, clearing his throat before reading the letter aloud. “Dear Cristiano, I think you are the best striker ever! I aspire to be just like you and score goals for Real Madrid one day. I think you look very handsome with your new haircut. It really compliments your already handsome face. If you are ever in Monaco, give me a call at 377-591-0472 so we can chat over brunch or something. Yours truly, James Rodríguez.” 

Ricky frowns a little at the end, shifting his eyes to Cristiano as if initiating a challenge. “Would you like to respond to this? He seems very smitten with you and your new look.”

“I—” The Portuguese touches his hair bashfully. “Karim did it for me—I don’t know—what do you think, though?”

“I think it looks good,” Ricky responds, straight-faced. Isco and Karim both chew meaningfully at their cereal, pretending not to listen.

“I only care about what you think,” Cristiano says, and Ricky rewards him with a smile, as if the Portuguese had passed a test. He quickly moves on to another envelope, however.

“Oh, this is strange.” The Brazilian pinches his brows together, after taking a moment to scan the content of the letter.

“Is it another hate mail?” Isco asks as he spoons up sugary, chocolate milk.

“No, not exactly,” Ricky explains. “This guy—it’s weird. He says a lot of awful things, like our defense is shit, and our midfielders are frightened babies when it comes to keeping possession. He wishes that our attackers would get kicked in the crotch every time they drift offside, so they wouldn’t pass their terrible sense of timing to future generations. Oh, and clean sheets are important. What’s the point of winning if you can’t even keep a clean sheet? Also, Karim, your face is too void of passion. Learn another emotion besides flaccid indifference, if you want to be a good captain.”

“Well, that’s unnecessarily harsh.” Isco frowns.

“Yeah, but—” Ricky chews pensively at the cap of his pen. “—This guy _cares_. He might be cynical and abrasive and rude, but he cares _so_ much, beneath it all. He tries to hide it, though—poorly. It’s very conflicting, as if he hates and loves the team at the same time.”

“Sounds like any BBC commentator when the England national team is playing,” Sergio says as he saunters to the fridge, catching only the latter part of the conversation.

“Who’s it from?” Karim asks.

“No full name. Just the initials I.C.F.” Ricky checks the back of the letter in case he has missed any vital information. “You think it’s someone important?”

~~

“I’m glad you can join us, Karim.”

“Yeah, I got your call. Is something the matter?”

“No, not at all. We’re very pleased actually. Five consecutive wins—it’s unheard of in your club’s history.”

“Thank you.”

“Your club was on the brink of bankruptcy, before we poured in our investment. I hope you’re not so pea-brained to have forgotten already.”

“No, I didn’t forget.”

“Wonderful! And now is a good time, perhaps, for your organization to return a favor to ours.”

“What is it?”

“We need you to lose against Barcelona.”

~~

Isco is sitting on a stone bench, fumbling with his phone, by the time Karim finally emerges from the headquarters of Bwin.

“What’s the matter with you?” The Spaniard says with a touch of concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, or something.”

Karim laughs, his breath nervous and shaky, and his voice unusually high. “I don’t know if I fucked up just now, but—we’re all about to get fucked up. Majorly.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Bwin wants us to throw our next match.” The Frenchman swallows, his back covered in a glaze of nervous sweat.

“They _what_?” Isco exclaims, eyes widening. “ _Why_?”

“Because we’re doing well— _inconceivably_ well. Everyone’s betting on us to win _El Clásico_ , and if we lose, Bwin will make millions, even billions.”

“So it’s all about money?” The Spaniard sounds disillusioned, devastated.

“I consider myself morally ambiguous at times, I know that, but there’s no way—I’d never—”

“Lose on purpose, betray our fans like that.” Isco wrings his hands uselessly. “That’s insane. I can’t believe they would make us do that!”

“I told them no.” Karim commences with the nervous pacing. “I pissed off some powerful people in there. I don’t know what’s going to happen now—to the club, our team. We just lost our main sponsor.”

“Jesus Christ, fuck them!” Isco rises to his feet. “We’ll figure something out. Find other sponsors.”

“Like who?” Karim doesn’t mean to yell, but it’s hard to contain his anger, frustration, and fear, when the ground has been pulled so suddenly from underneath their feet. “Riccardo Montolivo? Higuaín and his coalition of strippers? Can you imagine having Casino Milan written on your shirt? Or better yet, Rocket to Uranus?”

“Maybe you should sit down.” Isco reaches for his arm, only for the Frenchman to shrug away.

“ _Fuck_ —this is so fucked up! I don’t know. Should I have just—listened to them?”

“No!” Isco reacts without sparing a moment's hesitation. “Of course not! You did the right thing.”

“But now, the whole club is—”

“No, Karim, shut up and listen to me.” The Spaniard finally manages to get a hold of Karim’s wrists, urging the Frenchman still. “I don’t know how much of it you really remember, but before your freak head injury, we were a shit team. We were so shit, that we were actually paid because of it, so people can watch us struggle, and point and laugh. And when they finally got tired of us, we thought we were done for, until you got your weird epiphany and turned us into actual contenders. We were nobody. We barely had our dignity. And now that we’re finally— _somebody_ , we’re not about to give up the single most important thing.”

“Our dignity,” Karim repeats, and Isco nods.

“The team will understand. Even Xabi. We can figure something out together.”

“Okay,” Karim says, releasing the breath he had unknowingly held. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s go back and talk it over with the others. Maybe they have ideas to share too.”

Isco mutedly agrees, before joining Karim in their long journey home. Marcelo’s car is in the shop, so the two teammates had traveled to Bwin’s headquarters by bus. They have a mile to walk before reaching the stop, which gives them plenty of time to think and strategize over the unfortunate turn of events. Karim is so engrossed in his discussion with Isco, that he doesn’t notice the black, decidedly nondescript vehicle tailing them until they are a block away from their destination. He divulges just that to Isco, once they are forced to wait at a pedestrian crosswalk. 

“You sure they’re really following us?” Isco whispers anxiously to the Frenchman.

“Since we left the place,” Karim insists, “I didn’t think much of it at first, but—there’s no way it’s a coincidence. We’ve been walking for twenty minutes, almost.”

“What do we do?” 

Karim looks both ways down the street, only to see a double decker bus, moseying along. They could cross now, if they want to, even without the walk signal. 

The Frenchman nudges the Spaniard onto the crosswalk, keeping a solid hand on the smaller male’s back. “Once the bus passes behind us, make a run for it. We should get a few seconds start. And once we reach the next intersection, we split up.”

“Split up?” Isco hesitates, his voice shaky with a different sort of worry.

“They can’t follow us both, so whoever manages to lose them can call the police.” The Frenchman licks at his drying lips. “And in all fairness, it’s probably me, who’s gonna end up caught.”

“Yeah, I don’t doubt that.” Isco rolls his eyes. “Will you be okay?”

Karim chances a look over his shoulder to the passing bus that momentarily conceals them from their trackers. There really isn’t any time to argue about this.

“I don’t know.” The Frenchman answers honestly, before pushing Isco, urging him forward. “Run!”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback would be lovely. Thanks for reading! xx


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